


Folia In The Woods

by Schgain



Series: Białowieża [5]
Category: Darkwood (Video Game)
Genre: Do You Like It When Nothing Happens In Stories? So Do I!, Egregious Amounts Of Dogs, I tried to write this like an actual in-game quest, POV Second Person, Stranger-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: The Stranger runs an errand.





	Folia In The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [La Folia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGET78mPMCA) by Corelli. If you're familiar with my other works, you'll realize I only know one classical piece and it's this. 
> 
> Talk to me about the Houndmaster.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

The manor slumps into itself, a great beached behemoth with a structure like a rib cage caved in. It would have long since collapsed in on itself if it weren't for the trees growing through it, makeshift support beams like harpoons in whaleflesh. It stands taller and wider than any other house here, with flaking paint that shows it had once been white with a gilded trim, and a purple front door. The windows are dark with red curtains. 

The boy... the Musician. He'd said there was someone still here, a lady, that he'd wanted to find. Why, you're not entirely sure. Perhaps this is one of his extraordinarily bad judges of character, or perhaps there is actually something to be found here. Something worth finding. So, at the behest of a boy, you stare up at the great manor. It's definitely a fairer house than prose from where you stand on the other face of a wrought gate that's being swallowed by moss and rust. The lawn inside its sentry is almost taken care of, short and yellow-green compared to the wild weeds and brown underbrush on your half of the world.

A white ghost runs across the lawn. You stiffen and turn your head sharply at the sound of its steps. It's a dog, sort of; it's long by every measure and its limbs are dainty to the point of exaggeration, almost hooflike, with a face equally exaggerated and framed by white silk fur. You know it to be a Russian sighthound, and probably a purebred. An expensive dog for an expensive house.

Somehow it slips through the fence without disturbing it and it's upon you, grabbing the hem of your coat in its mouth with a careful precision. You look at the house, then back to the hound. It's creepy, but on top of that it's unmarred by the woods; there is no dirt on its fur or mushrooms growing from its eye sockets. It does not have mange. No ticks swarm over its frame. You shake it off and snatch your coat out of its mouth. The ripping sound vaguely concerns you (how do you mend? How do you darn? If you ruin this coat you will not get another) But the dog just stares with its unintelligent eyes. 

You stare back. It's not intimidated. It's not aggressive. It's waiting for something. For you, maybe. 

What a frightening thought.

You reach out a hand and pat its head. Its tail wags. Maybe it's a ghost after all and you're dead, and that's why you can touch it. The sighthound pulls at your sleeve this time, towards the house.

You let it be your psychopomp. It guides you through the gate, letting go of your sleeve to travel a pace ahead of you. Another dog joins it, this one brown and white. Then another, and another, until you count six in the yard, ushering you towards the entrance.

The doors swing open at your lightest touch. A foreign nausea floods you, which you can't quite place the cause of.

The house is clean, or at least clean in a way that can be expected of this wretched wood, with dust covering the dark blue hall rug and with curtains over both mirrors and windows tost. There are more dogs in here, swarming like rats. Your total count puts you at eleven. Such a number is worrying, but you're almost certain this is a dream. They stare at you like enthusiastic gargoyles and a feeling of loss comes over you. You like dogs. Eleven is perhaps excessive, but... 

"Please, come join me in the parlor."

A voice breaks your reverie. It's not commanding outright, but you get the sense that the speaker does not even consider you might disobey. You hate being bossed around by these random lost souls strewn about the wood.

You let the guard dogs guide you to the parlor. The hallway is thinner than the foyer and you have to wade though the mass of silky fur and long proportions. The door at the end of the hall is slightly ajar and when you squeeze through it, you see the Houndmaster.

She sits in a faded velveteen armchair like it's a throne, with practiced grace that owes itself to an air of tiredness. She resembles her dogs greatly, with a long face that is framed by straight black hair. More dogs surround her, figures like Romans and Greeks about a statue garden. She must be some kind of Orion. 

"Sit," she says. You sit. Sixteen sighthounds also sit and you are overcome with the sensation she is drawing comparisons.

She eyes you. Immediately you find yourself on the defensive, since she has somehow, wordlessly, asked you to answer for yourself.

"The Krimskoi manor is not some burned up husk for you to loot," she says, "and Folia Psovaya is not some dowager socialite that can be slapped around by the Outsiders." 

You sink into the armchair as she speaks. This too feels like an accusation of sorts, as though you are a child whose hand was caught inside a sugar jar. 

She pauses, and considers you. She seems impossibly old in her actions and demeanor, but her face is smooth and her hair is a solid black. Her eyes are just as dark, betraying no emotion but an unsettling judgement.

"Who are you?" asks the Houndmaster, but she asks herself. One of her hands absentmindedly drifts through the fur of one of her hounds. "What did you come here for?" 

You stare at her. She stares back. 

"Well?" 

With a sigh, you point to your throat. A different emotion falls over her face, and she turns to one of her dogs. She speaks to it in what you think is Russian, and the dog trots off. A moment later it drops a pad of paper and a pen in your lap, both damp. Its doggish smile and wagging tail make it hard for you to be grossed out by the saliva seeping into your pants. Patting it in thanks, you carefully draw on the pad the face of the musician's mask, then hold it up to show the Houndmaster. 

"The boy?" she asks. You wonder if that means she's pleased. She stands, carefully, slowly, and leans on a cane. The head of the cane is bone or maybe antler, and carved into the head of a dog. Of course it is.

She walks over to a chest of drawers, yanking out the top one with more force than necessary. She swears under her breath and jiggles it, then starts filing through papers, dinnerware, cloth napkins, and other useless things. Eventually she pulls out a stack of papers and walks over. When she hands you the papers you can see it's sheet music, aged from being poorly kept. There are annotations along the margins in both Polish and a Cyrillic text. Your face falls into a scowl (but when is it anything lighter?)- you were just sent here for an errand? 

You slam your hand on the armrest. The other tightens around the paper. With that you stand, and are dismayed that she stands over you. You glower at her, with no rebuttal or refusal to give. 

"You'll do it," the Houndmaster concludes. 

You nod. 

"But you won't like it."

You nod again. 

She sighs with airs of impatience. "I will be make it to be worth your while." 

Now she's singing your tune. 

"Money is useless now," she says, "but I can lend you my hounds, if you will be good to them. They will guard you." 

Borderline insufferable this stuffy exchange has been, you're not one to turn down a favor, even if the favor is having a bunch of creepy ghosts follow you through the wood. You nod, and she whistles. "Daniil! Artemiy! Klara!" Three of the sighthounds trot up to you, shoving their wet noses against your hand.

You nod at the Houndmaster. She nods back. You wouldn't be surprised if she was eager for you to leave, so sheet music in hand and dogs in tow, you turn for the door. A hand on your shoulder makes you stiffen, and when you half-turn to look behind you, she grabs the lapel of your coat in a death grip you hadn't expected from a noble. But she did say she was not a dowager socialite; perhaps in a time where sunlight could penetrate the boughs, she had been something more.

"If you are as cruel as the rest of your men," her voice low, tired, and dangerous, "you will not have a moment's rest in these woods. If I find you, I will have you ripped to shreds and fed to my dogs." 

You recoil. Then you reach up and shove her hand off of you, and when you walk out she doesn't say anything. 

You take her notebook and pen, though.

When you find the Musician it's where you left him, more or less. When he sees you he lights up with a smile, hopping from foot to foot. "Did you meet her? Oh, you did! Did she give you the... the!" He's interrupted by the three poltergeists at your heels swarming him with licks and headbutts. The dogs are nearly as big as he is, and for a moment you're worried they'll knock him over. What a stupid thing to worry about. 

You push through the furry mass and hand the little Musician the sheet music. His delight practically glows on his ugly little face, and he spins in a circle to show this glee. "Thank you for fetching them, m-mister!"

Fetching. Ugh. 

"Do you want to hear a song?" 

Idly, you nod, and take your audience seat on a stump. Your journal sits in your lap and you think about what to write of dogs and ghosts to the tune of a mistakes-riddled Corelli.


End file.
